Back with Aki in Juneau, we take the trail to Nugget Falls because it is convenient to the store that sells the dry roasted almonds—not because from the trail you can catch the reflection of glacier and sharp edged mountains in the thawed edges of Mendenhall Lake. We didn’t pick it because of the mountain goats–with their shaggy white coats—that munch on emerging growth on the rock walls above the falls. We didn’t even consider the falls the attraction even though thy plunge down a granite wall with roar that discourages conversation. We chose the trail for it proximity to shopping and because nothing along the trail grows tall enough to block the sun that warms Aki’s grey fur and softens the remaining lake ice like spring sun should do at the end of April.

While Aki chases after her orange frisbee I watch a mountain goat search a bare rock face for food. Like a child trying to steal candy secreted on a tall shelf, the goat rocks onto the tips of his rear cloven hooves and stretches out for soft spring growth that is almost out of reach.

Like the moon rising over a mountain ridge, the Mendenhall Glacier’s intense white mass grew as Aki and I approached the tip of the Fish Creek Peninsula.  It reached its zenith after we rounded the point, where with us now standing in shade, the glacier became our sun.

I wouldn’t have seen the glacial reveal if not for a seal. It drew me to the beach from the trail that runs along along the peninsula’s forest.  Thanks to him, I had stood in unexpected sunshine on snow covered beach rocks, watching the seal watch me and the little dog.  After it lost interest, the seal corkscrewed across the water surface and slipped beneath it.  Rather than return to the trail, I walked along the water’s edge as the glacier appeared to move past the peninsula tip. If we had stayed on the trail, the glacier and its mountain consorts would have jump at us when we rounded the point.

I am glad that the glacier appeared toward the end of the hike. After seeing it, I would not have been able to appreciate the beauty of the wetlands and forests we passed through to view it. After yesterday’s ski through the glacier’s rain drenched moraine, shoveling last night’s snowfall off our Chicken Ridge driveway, the sudden appearance of an ambulance and fire truck at our neighbor’s house, the threat of more rain, it was a joy to emerge from the gray and see sunshine light up trees newly flocked by snow, watch that beauty eclipsed by the rising glacier.  

The clean, quieting cold left yesterday, apparently to evade the rain now melting recent snow. Aki and I patrol the glacial moraine forest. The softening snow still supports her light frame but I would be post holing without my cross country skis.  I miss winter’s quiet and the freedom of travel offered by firm ice and snow. Aki loves these thaws, which uncovers favorite smells laid down before the last snow storm. She doesn’t mind the rain soaking her fine poodle hair. It might be different if she walked by a mirror, vain creature that she is.

Strong wind gusts blow across the open lake and above the forest. Each gust mimics the sound of an accelerating electric bus. I hear it easily above rain drops that maintain a staccato beat as they strike my rain parka. It’s a long, uncomplicated composition that builds to a series of thunder-like cracks followed quickly by a deep rumble as avalanches slide down Thunder Mountain.

As the avalanche chutes quiet, I leave the trail for a small, still frozen stream and find recent tracks of a river otter. The tracks seem out of place so close to the beaver village. Nearby, the severed branch of a balsam popular lays in the snow. It’s sticky buds still smell of sweet incense. Clutching it to grip of a ski pole, I carry it to the car. In the house, in water, it will scent to kitchen with balsam before its expanding leaf buds burst to reveal the green of spring.

This morning, low sunlight shined through frost covered leaves on Chicken Ridge. I knew it would be lovely on the moraine where colder temperatures and lack of wind would have allowed shards of hoar frost to cover the grass and willows. The same low light would bring out the details in the glacier’s ice. People and dogs would be thick on the trails, drawn out by sun and all it dazzles. I tried to resist going there, like a fat man tries resisting chocolate cake, but gave in to the promise of all that shinny beauty.

Aki nosed, chased, and sometimes cringed through the parade of dogs. Her other human and I took pictures. Half-inch thick ice covered most of the lake but we found open bays that reflected the glacier and its consorts, freshly white with snow. Joining a parade, we walked to Nugget Falls with the sun at our backs, watching the glacier grow in size with each step. If not for its more famous neighbor the huge waterfall would be a tourist attraction. Here it mainly provides the summer sound track for watching glacier, terns and gulls. I hear it on fall walks over the moraine and even on cross country ski adventures until the cold of deepest winter silences it.

Having sated our hunger for gaudy beauty, we turned to the sun, now so strong we can only look down at the trail. When the trail changes direction so the the sun shines from our right we see a frost covered bouquet of rose shaped galls formed on the ends of willow branches. The surrounding hoar frost melted quickly in the sun but these galls were just emerging from shade. The sun sparkle in the hoar frost, shinning enhanced by the melting until only moisture glistened on the willow galls and prismatic drops of water clung to the willow’s dead leaves.